“Don’t worry about it,” she calls over her shoulder. “That’s not really what this circle is about.”

That didn’t give me any sort of reassurance.

I need the money, I tell myself—because it’s the reassurance I need to follow through on this.

I head down the staircase after Kasey, the air getting cooler as we go. We descend to a level practically glowing with amber light. When I step off the staircase, my eyes move to the narrow hallway ahead of me, the walls covered in stone masonry, the floor fitted with marble.

It all looks like something made at least a century ago. There’s a musty smell in the air that no amount of magic can banish.

My power loves it, even if the rest of me feels trapped down here.

Fitted to the walls are sconces with flickering candlelight, the wax weeping down their sides.

“What is this place?”

“A persecution tunnel,” she says. “One of many.”

I forgot all about persecution tunnels, but they’re a big part of supernatural building plans; they are, in essence, a literal way to escape persecution.

“Henbane is full of these things,” Kasey continues. “You know how witches are,” she says, lifting a shoulder.

Cautious. Too much of our history has been full of violence against us not to warrant it.

In the distance, I hear low murmuring. As my pulse spikes, so does my curiosity.

The hall curves, then opens into a wide chamber. At its threshold rests another set of stone lamassu, keeping guard, and beyond them is a room full of supernaturals.

I lovingly move my hand over the head of one of the lamassu as we pass them, and then we enter the massive circular room. Like the hallway before it, the walls are covered in gray stone, and the floors, in polished marble. Several other hallways branch off this one, leading to who knows where.

The space itself is filled with masked and robed supernaturals—all of them witches, I presume, though I can’t be positive since no one’s magic is giving them away.

One of them wears the mark of the triple goddess on her, the triple moon symbol painted onto her mask’s forehead. She must be the priestess, the witch leading the circle.

When she sees Kasey, she picks up what appear to be two folded sets of black robes and pale masks, then approaches us.

“Hey, girlie,” she says from behind the mask, and I’m not at all expecting the soft, youthful notes of her voice, nor her familiarity with Kasey, whom she hugs.

The priestess passes over a robe and a mask. “We’re just about ready.”

Then the priestess nods to me. “Hi there. Glad to have you.” She hands me the other robe and mask. “You’ll need to put these on—the robe can go over your clothes—then join the circle. We’re waiting on the guests of honor, but I think we’ll begin before they arrive. They can join us when they get here.”

It takes me a moment to realize I’m not one of these guests of honor. And then, of course, I feel sheepish because I wasn’t expecting to be treated as some special star. I’m just a bit destabilized is all.

The priestess wanders away from us then, leaving me to unfold the robe and pull it on over my T-shirt and jeans.

“Shoes will have to go too,” Kasey says, tugging her own robe on. “It helps with grounding and channeling the magic.”

“Are you going to tell me now what we’re doing?” I say, removing my Chucks and then my socks before setting them aside. I feel slightly better, now that I’ve met the witch leading the spell circle.

“It’s just a spell circle. We’ll be holding hands, chanting a little, and joining our power.”

Yeah, but for what purpose?

I stare down at the mask, running my thumb over its lower lip; it’s obviously meant to give us some anonymity.

Why would that be important? Why would someone pay for robes and masks and the presence of two dozen witches? If all of us here are getting paid five hundred dollars, then that’s roughly ten grand. What sort of magic costs ten grand?

I glance over the other masked members to see if anyone shares my concerns. I can’t see any faces, but nobody else appears bothered. I try to gain some confidence from that.

Exhaling, I pull on the mask, settling the linen hair covering over my wavy locks, hiding them from view.

Kasey has already moseyed over to the forming circle, though I’m not sure which one of the robed individuals she is.

I join the circle myself, and the girl next to me—not Kasey, judging by her green eyes—nods to me but does nothing else.

Once the circle is fully formed, the priestess moves to the center of it, a chalice gripped in her hands.

“It’s time, sisters,” she says. “Join me in tonight’s spell circle.”

My nose wrinkles then as I notice the smell in the room. What I assumed before was simply the smell of a dank subterranean room is…is something else, something vaguely familiar.

Before I can focus any more on it, the priestess lifts her mask just enough to take a drink from the chalice. Once she’s done, she lowers her mask again and hands the drink off to a robed witch on the far side of the circle. That witch lifts her mask and takes a small swallow, then passes it to the person next to her. The goblet moves from witch to witch, each one taking a sip before handing it off.

“What’s in that?” I ask the green-eyed witch next to me.

She lifts a shoulder as if to shrug it off. “Just a bit of witch’s brew—plus a few spices to help heighten our magic.”

Spices? Is that what we’re calling drugs these days?

Some spell circles use them to enhance the group’s collective power and experience, but do I trust the strangers enough in this circle to trip with them?

Hell no.

So when the chalice makes its way to me, I lift my mask and bring the cup to my lips, but fuck this, I am not drinking some random concoction. My life is chaotic enough while sober.

I press the rim of it to my mouth and tip it back just enough for the liquid to brush my lips. After a couple of seconds, I lower the chalice and pass it along. Only once the attention has moved down the line do I discretely reach under my mask and wipe my mouth.

Already, on the far side of the room, I see some witches swaying. Whatever was in that drink, it must be strong to have such an effect.

Once the chalice makes it fully around the circle, the priestess sets it aside.

“Let’s join hands.”

I clasp the palms of the women on either side of me, and my skin tingles where my power presses against theirs.

The priestess makes a low, guttural noise, then speaks in another tongue, one I understand.

Latin.

“I call on old magic and the darkness from deep beneath our feet. Lend us your power for tonight’s spellcasting. From earth to feet, foot to hand, and witch to witch, our circle calls forth your magic.”

Power flares across the group, rising from the marble floors and into the soles of our feet. It flows up our legs and torsos before funneling down our arms, moving around and around the group until our powers blend, and it feels as though we are a single unit.

I’m so absorbed in the strange, exhilarating sensation of being a part of a single larger unit that I don’t realize another woman is being led toward the circle, not until the priestess calls out, “Enter our circle and join in the night’s festivities. We offer our permission to cross our sacred power line.”

Down the circle, two witches awkwardly lift their joined hands, and two more individuals press in between them, crossing into the center of the circle.

I watch the two individuals, my eyes fixed on the larger of them. This person wears a black robe and a mask like the rest of us. It’s what lies beneath that mask that catches my eye. The skin of their neck is a smooth pale gray, the sheen of it somehow dull. As they prowl forward, their movements seem jerky and mechanical.